Two Weeks with One Arm

The trials and tribulations of recovering from surgery

This is the first time I’ve tried typing since having my arm cut open and wrapped in an immobilizing splint two weeks ago. I’m sitting on the deck at my in-laws’ lake house listening to raindrops on the tarp roof overhead. My left arm is in the sleeve of my rain coat, but the foot-and-a-half-long solid contraption on my right arm provides its own warmth, and won’t fit in a sleeve anyway. I can rotate my right arm at the shoulder and wiggle my fingers, but my elbow and wrist are trapped in the shape of the splint.

I elected to undergo surgery for lateral epicondylitis, also called tennis elbow (though I’ve never played tennis). For the past two years, my arms have been in enough pain to limit my activities, and conservative treatment didn’t help. Surgery “cleans up” the frayed tendon and will hopefully help me return to normal within six months.

Both arms have bothered me, with my dominant right arm being a little worse, so I scheduled surgery on that side first. Although I’ve had multiple gynecological surgeries related to endometriosis and infertility, I’ve never undergone surgery on an external body part. I’ve never even broken a bone. So I had no idea what to expect when it comes to living without the use of an arm.

I didn’t even know that my entire arm would be immobilized until a few weeks before the procedure, when I messaged my surgeon to inquire about exercise. I knew I wouldn’t be paddling for a while, but I naively hoped I might still be able to run or hike while my arm healed. Only then did I hear about the “splint.”

When I pictured a “splint,” I imagined a small support attached to part of my arm, perhaps tied in a sling around my neck. I didn’t picture the hulking cast-sized contraption that extends from my upper arm to halfway down my hand, lined with solid material padded with cotton and secured with a wrap. I would have to adapt more than I anticipated.

Exercise, it turns out, has been out of the question. I’ve been advised to avoid sweating in my splint, to reduce the risk of infection and general grossness. On day five of my recovery, I tried going for an evening walk around the neighborhood with Seth (he handled both of the dog leashes). I made it a block and a half before my entire arm was throbbing, aching, and threatening to explode out of its enclosure. The pressure felt claustrophobic in a way I’ve never experienced. I headed home to ice and elevate my elbow while he and the dogs enjoyed the sunset stroll. I haven’t tried walking since then, except around the house or out to the car.

Driving has also been inadvisable in my one-armed state, so I stayed home the entire first week and enjoyed a couple visits from friends (one of whom drove me downtown for lunch). The plan was to spend the first two weeks at home until my splint was removed, but within a few days, I was stir-crazy. So Seth and I planned to visit our summer retreat—our 1991 Winnebago parked in the driveway at my in-laws’ lake house, where I could more comfortably sit outside and stare at the scenery in my compromised state. And so I find myself sitting on the deck in the rain, happy that at least I’m not missing a beautiful day on the water.

I found myself a little writing buddy.

I’ve become left-handed for the first time in my life. This morning, I sat in my lawn chair with my lap desk on top of a crescent-shaped pillow that contours around my abdomen. I balanced my plastic bowl of yogurt and granola at chest-height and stabbed at it left-handed with my spoon, with the grace and dexterity of a two-year-old. I should have been wearing a bib.

Bathing myself is even more comical. I bought a vinyl arm-shaped cover that goes over my splint and clings to my upper arm with a rubber flange. It takes some maneuvering to single-handedly wrap my flimsy camp towel around my body and clasp it together with my left hand for the walk down to the shower. Since I can’t squeeze shampoo or conditioner into one hand using the other, I blindly squirt them on top of my head, hoping not too much or too little comes out. Then I rake my one hand through my scalp and hair to lather, rinse, and repeat. My left hand can reach most of my body to scrub soap—everywhere except my upper left arm, which hopefully gets clean enough when I rinse my shampoo off.

Have you ever tried shaving your left armpit with your left hand? I can tell you that it’s possible. Applying deodorant works the same way. Bra hooks are tricky when you can’t bend your arm to your waist, so I’ve mostly stuck with sports bras and short-sleeved t-shirts that I can dive into. Pants without buttons or zippers are key, as are shoes without laces. I’ve had carte-blanche to hang out in spandex pants and tie-dyed Crocs, which if I’m being honest is not unlike any other day.

Laney says these Crocs are awesome.

The most annoying thing has been my hair. There is simply no way to tie a ponytail without two hands. So when I’d wake up and Seth was already at work, I’d have to claw back what hair I could in a 90s-style clip so I could brush my teeth and wash my face. I did discover an overpriced hair tie on Amazon designed for people with limb differences that allows me to semi-successfully create my own ponytail. It’s a piece of elastic cord with one of those button-stop closures that cinches up the hood of a jacket. Contrary to its advertising, though, it does require two arms. I create a head-sized loop and pull it over my forehead like a headband, then hold the closure with my left hand while looping the other end of the elastic around my splinted arm to pull it tight. The extra two feet of elastic dangles at my back (though the Amazon listing claims it can be wrapped God-knows-how-many-times around the ponytail to get it out of the way). It’s good enough to contain my hair while I spit toothpaste into the sink, but I wouldn’t trust it on a run. Luckily, all I have to do right now is sit.

The splint comes off tomorrow, and I’m relieved but apprehensive about the next phase of recovery. Although it’s been restricted, my arm has felt safe ensconced in its encasement. Will I be more likely to damage the tendon and slow my recovery when I can bend and flex? Will it hurt more once I start using it? Will I bump it or bang it or get it infected? When it’s not explosively swollen, I’m able to think of the splint as a warm hug protecting my elbow while it heals.

I am looking forward to regaining my mobility after living for two weeks with one arm. May I never again take for granted the miracle of a ponytail, a fully-shaved armpit, or the ability to scrape the last of the yogurt out of the bowl without flinging it onto my shirt.

The fun part is that I get to do this all over again next month when my left elbow goes under the knife (hopefully by then my right arm will be functional).

At least I can wiggle my fingers enough to type!

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